


Lay You Low

by KoreArabin



Category: Black Mirror
Genre: Bukkake, Forced, Forced Arousal, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, M/M, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-03-05 10:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13385802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: Captain Daly takes exception to Walton's mention of "grinding mounds" and decides to punish him.A non-consensual, humiliating, bukkake fest ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

"For he's a jolly good fel-looow! And so say all of us!"

The forced celebrations and kisses (without tongues) over, the crew of the USS Callister go back to their stations. Captain Daly takes the conn.

"Helmsman Packer, set a course for Rannoch B."

"Aye, Captain!"

For a few moments, the mood on the bridge is calm. The crew members sit, occasionally pressing buttons (which actually do nothing other than bleep), staring intently at their screens as if engrossed in their duties. The atmosphere changes subtly when The Captain calls one of them forward.

"Lieutenant Walton, come here please."

Walton frowns, but steps forward smartly to stand before The Captain.

Daly points to the floor and, with only a second's hesitation, Walton sinks smoothly to his knees, clasping his wrists together in the small of his back.

Daly leans back in his chair, indicating with the tip of his boot that Walton should spread his legs further apart. Walton obeys, inner thighs beginning to tremble with the effort of kneeling with his legs spread so wide.

"Lieutenant Walton, are you familiar with the protocol directives of Space Fleet?"

Walton hesitates, but then replies robustly.

"Of course, Captain. As the right of each sentient species to live in accordance with its normal cultural evolution is considered sacred, no Space Fleet personnel may interfere with the normal and healthy development of alien life and culture. Such interference includes introducing superior knowledge, strength, or technology to a world whose society is incapable of handling such advantages wisely. Space Fleet personnel may not violate this Directive, even to save their lives and/or their ship, unless they are acting to right an earlier violation or an accidental contamination of said culture. This directive takes precedence over any and all other considerations, and carries with it the highest moral obligation."

Walton finishes his recitation with a smile and a flourishing twist of his head, an unconscious gesture of self-congratulation with which Daly has become all too familiar over the years of their long association.

"Very good, Lieutenant. Although a trained monkey could no doubt memorise the words and reel them off with more understanding than that of which you appear to be capable."

Walton frowns, "Captain?"

Daly stands, looking down at him. " _The highest moral obligation_. Does that mean anything at all to you, Lieutenant?"

Walton is flustered. _Moral obligations_? On this prison ship which makes a mockery of any notion of the basic human right of self-determination?

"I - I don't understand what you mean, Captain?"

Daly leans down over him, one hand twisted in his hair, pulling his head back cruelly, the other tight around his exposed throat.

"I believe the expressions used involved "mounds", and "grinding", and "shit"? Hardly the sort of language an officer of Space Fleet should be using, much less encouraging in his subordinates."

Walton bridles at the accusation. "Private conversations between crew members are not subject to Space Fleet protocols! The crew's leisure time is our own. It is not something to be eavesdropped upon, nor raised outside of that sphere of private confidences."

Daly tightens his grip around Walton's throat.

" _Eavesdropping_? _Confidences_? Lieutenant, you are out of line. Your demeanour, your every action, your every _word_ reflects upon Space Fleet, and I, for one, will not have you sully that proud name with your filthy, pathetic behaviour."

Throwing Walton bodily to the floor, Daly presses his boot hard into the back of his neck, forcing Walton's face into the space linoleum.

"You want to grind? Grind your _mound_? Well, Walton, I have arranged just the thing for you."

Daly fiddles briefly with his omnicorder, before the doors to the bridge slide open and a group of new crew members enter. At first glance they appear to resemble Walton; all are dressed identically in the pale blue Space Fleet tunic and black trousers. All are relatively tall and rangy, with soft brown hair gelled into a side parting/quiff-type arrangement. But there the similarities end.

Because none of the new crew members have faces.


	2. Chapter 2

Walton is immediately on his feet, every nerve and sinew poised for fight or flight. As the faceless newcomers approach, he veers hard to the left of the bridge, running blindly for the sliding doors. The newcomers spread out, circling to surround Walton and cut off his escape. Walton manages to dodge them, momentarily, and throws himself bodily at the doors, praying that they will open quickly enough to allow him out. 

He almost makes it, sliding sideways through the narrow gap forming as the doors begin to open, but one of the newcomers manages to hook a foot around his ankle, and Walton is sent sprawling to the corridor floor. With a feral howl of fear and frustration, he is hauled to his feet, arms twisted up painfully behind his back, and marched back on to the bridge and forced to his knees before The Captain.

Daly smiles down coldly at his captive.

"Normally, when you misbehave or forget your place, I remind you that I can have Tommy back here in an instant. That always has the desired effect, does it not?"

Walton stares at him with loathing, wanting nothing more than for the floor to open beneath Daly's feet and send him plummeting out into the cold, vast nothingness of space.

"However, in this instance I have decided that you may fight and, if you can manage to escape, you will not be punished. Of course, the converse of that is that if you do not manage to escape, you will not only receive the punishment, but no doubt something of a beating, too. What do you say, Lieutenant?"

Despite the threat of Tommy, despite _everything_ , Walton relishes the opportunity to be able to speak relatively freely for once to his detested captor.

"Fuck. You."

The newcomers lay into him in earnest then, an onslaught of fists and boots; in his flanks, his back, his ass and between his legs ( _not that there's anything there to hurt, he reflects_ ). Only when he is lying helpless on the floor, curled into himself, simply trying to present as small a target as possible, does Daly call them off. As Walton is forced to his feet and then dragged unceremoniously from the bridge, he hears The Captain's voice.

"Mr Dudani, you have the conn. I shall return once Lieutenant Walton has been disciplined."

The remaining crew members can only glance at each other fearfully, waiting in silence for Daly's return.

~ ~ ~

Walton is dragged, stumbling, only a short way before being thrown into a brightly lit, featureless, grey steel-lined cell. The only furniture is a chair on one side of the room, thickly upholstered in soft dark leather. Daly takes the seat and gestures to the faceless newcomers.

"These are synthetic replicas of you, James. _Synthreps_. Identical copies of the outside you in every way, other than the obvious facial differences, evidently. And the fact that they comply with the protocol directives of Space Fleet. They recognise and respect the Space Fleet command hierarchy and conduct themselves accordingly. They do not indulge in coarse language, insubordination, and drinking to excess, nor encourage these behaviours in others. In short, _Lieutenant_ , they are not like you, dishonouring and debasing the Space Fleet uniform with your disgraceful, disgusting behaviour."

Walton struggles to his knees and spits, a glob of saliva landing squarely on the toe of Daly's boot. Daly simply sets his jaw and purses his lips.

"Callister Associates - commence disciplinary program."

The synthreps begin by pinning Walton to the floor, pulling his trousers and underwear down to expose his sexless mound, and then removing their own trousers and underwear, revealing perfect replicas of _outside_ Walton's not exactly unsubstantial genitalia.


	3. Chapter 3

Daly stands over Walton as the synthreps keep him held firmly in place on the floor, stretching out his hand in the all too familiar “gonna throw a fireball” gesture. Walton braces himself for suffocation, but instead he is startled by a sudden tingling in his groin and backside. He stares down in utter astonishment as his genitals suddenly begin to emerge from the blank expanse of skin between his legs. 

First, his cock, actually looking pretty robust and substantive, given its absence and inactivity for so long. And then his balls, deliciously round and heavy, and surprisingly hairy for a blonde man. But then, he reflects, his partners have always been surprised by his relative hirsuteness.

Just having his bits back again is enough to distract Walton from the sudden pain in his backside, as his anus suddenly begins to flutter open. And "flutter" is a good description: his asshole, absent for so long, suddenly feels incredibly sensitive. He can feel each minute movement as the smooth flesh ripples open and his anus reestablishes itself.

Daly smirks down at his prone Lieutenant. 

“Surprised, James? Go on, touch yourself; I can see that you want to.”

The synthreps release their crushing hold on him, and Walton, still somewhat in shock, takes himself in hand, gripping his cock and cupping his balls. His genitals are unbelievably sensitive; far more so than he can recall them ever being previously. He is acutely aware of even the slightest pressure from his fingers, to the extent that he is rapidly becoming erect.

“You’ll find that they’re pretty much hypersensitive now, James. Your ass, too.”

Walton stares up at Daly, still clutching his now impressive erection, and reaches back to touch himself. Daly is correct; his anus is far more sensitive than it should be, and even touching it gently sends a lightning bolt of arousal directly to his crotch.

“B – but why?” 

Daly laughs, a short barking, mirthless sound.

“I thought it would be obvious, Lieutenant. Your talk of _grinding_ and _mounds_ indicates a preoccupation with matters sexual. Well, I am going to indulge you. Only, rather than with your usual bevy of hot young women, with a gang of ferociously male synthreps...”

Daly slowly licks his greasy, plump lips and leans down into Walton’s face. 

“You see, I know you, James. I know what you like – God knows, we’ve all seen it enough around the office – and it isn’t men. So you’re going to be raped by a bunch of guys, probably repeatedly, and you’re going to hate it. But I’m going to ensure that you enjoy every single minute of it, and you’re going to hate that even more.”


	4. Chapter 4

Walton gasps in pleasure, instinctively gripping his cock slightly harder, just as he cringes with self-loathing as Daly gently toes his testicles with the tip of his boot. 

"Get up, Lieutenant. I told you, didn't I, that if you can escape you won't be punished? Now that you know what the punishment will be, try to escape it.”

Walton snarls right back at The Captain.

"Escape? In a sealed steel cell? What are the odds on that?"

Daly laughs again. "Oh no, I won't keep you locked here - you have..." consulting his omnicorder "...20 minutes to hide yourself away on the ship, James. The synthreps won't be sent out to locate you until that time is up."

As Walton leaps to his feet, Daly smirks.

"But you'll be naked, and suffering the effects of your newfound _sensitivity_."

~~~

Walton needs no encouragement. Even naked, and sporting an impressively unflagging erection, he knows that during his long period of imprisonment on USS Callister he has become extremely well acquainted with the layout and workings of the ship. As soon as the cell door is released, he is sprinting away to the engineering decks. 

It is the best place on the ship to hide away; the decks form a vast complex of cramped, dimly red-lit nooks and crannies, echoing with the low humming of the engines. Walton slips into one of the dark alcoves containing hoses and electrical cables, sliding behind them and sinking to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest and sitting motionless, waiting for the synthrep hunters to appear.

~~~

It's difficult to know how much time has passed. He's stiff from staying so still for so long, but at least he's not cold; the heat produced by the ship's engines is overwhelming. Then he hears the sound of booted footsteps approaching. He freezes, trying to keep his breathing as shallow as possible. Through the tiniest gap in the cables, he sees at least four pairs of black-clad legs passing back and forwards along the corridor.

Then, suddenly, his cock swells even more, and a huge spurt of fluid gushes from his ass. Taken by surprise, and virtually on the point of orgasm, he groans, again fisting his cock, rocking against his heel as he presses it hard against his ass; his ass, which is suddenly thrumming and pulsing with a life of its own.

Immediately realising his mistake, he tries to muffle his sounds of pleasure. But it is too late. Strong synthrep arms weave through the cables and drag him out, struggling and humiliated, then twist his arms up behind his back until he is gasping in pain.

Walton is dragged, fighting all he way, back to the steel lined cell. Daly is there, sipping a vanilla latte (skim milk), and flicking casually through his omnicorder. 

The synthreps step away, leaving Walton trembling, unable to prevent himself sinking to the floor, his cock throbbing and leaking, and his balls tight and aching. His asshole is fluttering again, and tingling, slick with whatever fluid suddenly spurted from it earlier. 

Walton cowers, hunched over, trying with all his might to resist touching his cock. To do so in front of Daly, after his taunting, would be too humiliating. Even as the thought passes through his consciousness, another wave of arousal floods through him.

Without meaning to, he finds himself supported by his elbows with his face pressed to the floor, on his knees, back arched and straining as he fights against the desperate need blooming between his legs. 

Dimly, he hears Daly through his fever.

"So here we have - Lieutenant James Walton of Space Fleet, sometime James Walton CEO - a _slut_ , on his knees, his legs spread, presenting himself to be used by a group of eager men. What's that?"

Daly leans in to study Walton as he trembles on the floor, trying to process the overwhelming sensations pulsing through his genitals, perineum and anus. Walton wants to cry with humiliation, unable to stop the needy moans pouring from his throat as he rolls his hips, thrusting against the cold metal of the floor.

Then, he comes, roaring as his come spurts in an unending arc across the floor. He's stunned; he cannot remember ever having such a productive orgasm. He is brought acutely to his senses as Daly speaks.

"Make him clean that up. Then, have him brought to me, once you've made him desperate again."

Walton moans as a finger is forced up his ass and his face is pressed into the cold, congealing puddle of come decorating the floor.

"You heard The Captain. Lick it up."


End file.
